


broken down on memory lane

by perlaret



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s), Senator Ben Solo, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, exchange treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perlaret/pseuds/perlaret
Summary: “Come on. How long are you going to hold it against me?”The response that springs to mind is too petulant to be given credence but he tries it anyway. “Holdwhatagainst you?”“The fact I’m working for your mother while you’re still angry with her,” Dameron says.





	broken down on memory lane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).



Ben Solo is not expecting visitors. His calendar for the rest of the afternoon is blissfully clear, a stark relief in the wake of the last few days. Next week is a break in Session, an opportunity for the Senate to return to their respective sectors and make themselves available to their planetary constituents, but the lead up to such periods is always fraught with last minute scrambles and bureaucratic fires at every turn. It’s miserable, and he is looking forward to a day’s reprieve before his own regress back to the Alderaan Sector.

It is a testament to his own folly that Ben truly believed that nothing more could stand in the way of that. When he enters his front office, both of his assistants are mysteriously absent, which on a better day he might have taken for a sign. As it is, he doesn’t realize his error until he opens the door to his private workspace and comes to face with one of the very last people Ben wished to see. 

“Why are your boots on my desk?” 

Poe Dameron grins at him from the chair – his chair – behind said desk. Dameron’s boots, black, standard-issue, are well shined and clean and stark against the crisply ironed fabric of his Resistance uniform, but nevertheless still boots, and not on the floor as they ought to be.

“It’s good to see you too, Senator Solo,” he says without the slightest hint of chagrin. He gets to his feet with the unflappable ease of someone who’s accustomed to belonging anywhere he goes. Ben sets his jaw, drawing the door closed behind him.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, directing his path to the cabinets that occupy the far side of his office. It’s not a far walk; Junior Senatorial offices are not particularly expansive and he does not yet have the tenure, favor, or sheer clout necessary for an early upgrade. Ben hears rather than sees the rustle of Dameron’s movement behind him, focusing his eyes instead on the simple habit of putting his things back in their places. 

There is a brief, telling pause. “Can’t I just be here to see you?” Dameron asks. His tone is aiming for good nature and better humor, but Ben can sense the ripples in their wake, lapping at his consciousness and carrying ulterior motives on their gentle tide.

“What does she want, Commander?” Ben answers shortly.  

Dameron sighs. “Hey... Come on. It’s not like that.” 

Ben turns abruptly and makes no attempt to conceal the derision he feels, letting it twist his mouth into a ready scowl. He flicks his eyes over his visitor, from the damn boots, over the olive-hued trousers and matching top, the pins designating rank and station, only briefly taking in Dameron’s matching frown before retracing his journey back down; it’s a condescension, a crudely dismissive callback to another time, when he might have looked at this man with an altogether different intent. Today, Ben means only to emphasize his disbelief.  

“Then tell me. What is it like?” 

Dameron’s eyebrows draw together and Ben watches, unsympathetic, as he no doubt cycles through a half dozen possible retorts, likely to be scathing or cajoling or sardonic. Instead Ben finds himself mildly surprised, because Dameron only sighs again, sharply, this time through his nose, and says, “When’s the last time you swept for bugs?” 

“Recently,” Ben says. Dameron glances around the room, eyes narrowed; the fine lines at the corners of his eyes have deepened since Ben last saw him. Ben discards the thought.  

His guest’s skepticism is not difficult to read, settling more assertively between them as the silence gathers. Ben can guess what he’d prefer – a casual seeming conversation out in the open, perhaps in the Senatorial commons, or the nearby Hosnian botanical gardens. He can picture the spectacle for curiosity they’d be; Senator Solo of New Alderaan in his staid senatorial robes and Commander Dameron in his Resistance colors. The Resistance is a known presence hereabouts, Sella herself is always buzzing hither and yon, ruffling feathers on behalf of his mother’s cause. But Ben makes it a point to always avoid public encounters with her as well. He doesn’t need to lend credence to the rumors of conflict that beg constantly at his heels; it only stirs up uglier things, the rumors no one quite has the gall to say to his face.

Ben will have none of it. He brushes past Dameron, clipping his elbow just so, a deliberate accident, and takes a seat in his relinquished chair.

“Go on then,” he says.

“Right,” Dameron says, and takes half a seat on the edge of Ben’s desk, because why be civilized when he can needle at Ben’s patience? “So this is completely confidential."

Ben waves abruptly, an acknowledgement. Dameron nods. 

“I’ve been looking for Lor San Tekka,” he says. Ben’s patience immediately vacates the premises. 

“Get out,” Ben snaps.

“No,” Dameron says, far too amiably. “This is important and you should hear me out.” He affects a softer look, one perfectly designed to summon something up in Ben that should be long put to rest. Ben feels his cheeks burn as Dameron rests a hand on the desk between them, leaning in urgently, and his entire demeanor is so damned sincere that Ben can’t decide whether Dameron knows that he’s manipulating him. “Hear me out,” Dameron says, “even if it’s just for old time’s sake.”

Ben sinks into the back of his chair, the few inches of space it affords a much needed buffer. “You only get to use that one once,” Ben drawls. “You sure this is how you want to burn it?”

Dameron ducks his head and laughs a little, like there’s something stuck in his throat, but when he lifts his head Ben can see the gravity underneath, threatening to pull Ben into his orbit. There’s a vertical line that shows between his brow, furrowed with earnestness.

“Yeah... yeah. It’s serious, Ben. The First Order is getting serious.”

Ben’s skin pricks with old discomfort, for more than one reason. He ignores both tidily. “What of it?”

“What of it?” Dameron repeats. He gets a befuddled look, like Ben’s just told him that two and two do not, in fact, equal four, before settling into annoyance. Finally. “Be serious. You know very well that they’re a real threat, I know you do. And I’ve spent the last weeks playing cat and mouse with their agents – they’re trying their damnedest to find Luke Skywalker, and all of Threepio’s spy chatter indicates that they’re planning something. Something big. And of everyone other than Tekka, you’re the last known person to have seen Skywalker, and yet–" Dameron gestures futilely at him, sending disappointment shuddering Ben’s way. _“What of it.”_

Ben makes a show of tapping his fingers slowly over the arm of his chair. “I’ve told your people already. We argued, we parted ways. I don’t know where he went, and I’m not interested in knowing.”

“You could _help,”_ he argues.

“The Resistance doesn’t need my help,” Ben says.

Dameron’s expression shutters, shifts, and then settles into pure determination. Before Ben can blink, he’s slid from his seat on the desk and traversed the space between them and takes a knee. He reaches for Ben’s hand and holds tight.

Ben can feel the calluses on Dameron’s hands, rough against the backs of his fingers. They don’t stop his touch from being gentle. 

“Please, Ben,” he says, a crack like embers in his voice.

Ben swallows hard, his gaze skipping away. “Dameron–“

“Don’t give me that shit,” he interrupts, with an adamant squeeze, turning his hand so their fingers suddenly slip and interlock. It’s like cause and effect, his grip tightens and in turn something aching and hungry in Ben unlocks, its quietude upended in a moment. It draws Ben’s gaze back into orbit. “Come on. How long are you going to hold it against me?”

The response that springs to mind is too petulant to be given credence but he tries it anyway. “Hold _what_ against you?”

“The fact I’m working for your mother while you’re still angry with her,” Dameron says.

Ben sniffs. “I don’t care about that.” He aims for unaffected but misses by lightyears and instead it comes out far too sulky. Dameron leans in, instinctively aware that he has Ben in his sights, right on target. Ben should pull away. He does not.

“We were friends once,” Poe says, “at least.” He shakes his head like he’s casting off the wrong words and finally settles on, “Come to D’Qar. Look at what we have, what we know, point us in the right direction if you can. It could make all the difference in the galaxy.”

Ben groans, a muted thing that strangles in his throat. “I am expected in New Alderaan, Poe.” 

He says it without thinking. Hope, ever stubborn and even more ready, crackles alight in Poe’s eyes.

“You can do both,” he presses. 

“No–“

“You have help,” Poe insists. “Extend your trip, have your people reschedule some things. It’s a detour, sure, but it wouldn’t take long.” 

“It’s not that simple,” Ben says, which it true enough. But really, if he’s being honest, it’s not that difficult either.

He doesn’t expect what Poe does next. Poe reaches up with his free hand and finds Ben’s cheek, a solid, steady touch that makes Ben catch his breath. Dameron smiles a little, but his gaze is no less focused. Ben can’t look away. 

“It can be,” Poe murmurs. 

“That’s cheating,” Ben says, voice suddenly hoarse.

“Yeah, but you say I only had this one shot,” Poe says with an almost playful cant of his head. His thumb grazes over Ben’s skin, stroking at the swell of his cheekbone. “I’ve got to use every resource at my disposal.”

In that instant, Ben could be ten years younger again, free of political ties and wandering the stars, back when his his unpredictable path sent him careening into Poe’s. No longer a small ache, there’s a black hole in his chest that yawns with want and all of his principles, all of his excuses, seem infinitesimal before it.

“Still...”

The syllable fades and they linger in the midst of Ben’s indecision.

Poe sighs, turns his hand to tuck back a loose strand of Ben’s hair; simultaneously, the room grows unaccountably warmer. “Think about it,” Poe says. “The offer stands." 

“I make no promises,” Ben says.  

“I know.”

Poe gets to his feet and recedes, his touch falling away gradually, skimming over the slope of Ben’s jaw before dropping away entirely. Ben bites the inside of his lip, hard.

“You know where to find me,” Poe says with one step backward, toward the door.

“Don’t wait up for me, Dameron,” Ben warns. He tastes blood.

Poe laughs again, but there’s less humor there than there was before. “Yeah, I know. I’ve learned.”

Ben has always hated watching him go, so he turns away. The door sounds as Poe leaves, and then it’s quiet and Ben is alone.

Just as expected.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this treat! I wrote this as part of the 2017 [knightpilot exchange](http://knightpilotexchange.tumblr.com)!


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